15 May The Drive out of Falkirk, by G.M. Perkins
Johnny McKinnon was, in many ways, a simple man. He enjoyed large trucks, good beer, and action movies – as long as they weren’t the kind with magic or aliens or other weird shit. He liked hockey games if the teams weren’t playing like they belonged in the women’s league, and his Saturday nights were made better if he had potato chips to go with the game. He disliked people who had nothing better to do than criticize him, which partially explained why he paid child support to an ex-girlfriend and an ex-wife.
Johnny had reached a point in his life that his job paid well enough and did not demand anything of him beyond the bare minimum, and he made no effort to surpass expectations. Retirement was on the horizon, and he intended to spend it just like how he spent his weekends presently: golfing in hot weather, hunting in cold weather, drinking in any weather, and as often as possible, surrounded by friends he had known for years. His gruff and impatient demeanour gave way in the presence of such people to reveal a laddish sense of humour, albeit one that relied heavily on impression and stereotype.
These comedic skills were primarily used at group gatherings, often in the homes of friends in and around the village of Falkirk. At one such get-together, during the Christmas season, Johnny was granted the courage by a trio of Moosehead cans to do his impression of Justin Trudeau tearfully admitting to homosexual urges. The dozen other people present, equally if not more plastered, snorted and chuckled their approval. Outright laughter was had when Johnny, who had added a lisp halfway through the routine, concluded with, “… and sorry for the blackface again, but don’t worry, it’s part of my Cuban heritage!”
The mood was light, and Johnny, satisfied with his contribution to the evening, began making his goodbyes. He did a farewell tour around the room, mostly consisting of, “See yous, and Merry Christmas if I don’t,” with most answering along the lines of “Yep, see ya later and drive safe, eh?”
As he finished lacing his boots the host of the party, a local Ontario Provincial Police officer, far more intoxicated than Johnny, performed his duty by saying, “Wait wait wait, c’mere,” and gesturing for Johnny to approach him.
“Whatcha need Murph?” Johnny asked.
“Breathe,” Murph said, pointing at his own nose.
Johnny let out a big, booze-filled breath right into Murph’s face. The host scrunched up his nose in mock disgust. Seriously, he said, “Yep, just as I thought,” and then laughing drunkenly, “you’re fuckin’ ugly!”
“Ah shuddap ya fackin’ boozer,” Johnny chuckled out in response, “I’ll see you later but I’ll smell you first,” he said as he muscled his way out the door into the cold winter night, shutting the door behind him.
That day had seen the first decent snowfall of the season, with thick, persistent flakes beginning to fall early in the morning and falling sporadically from the grey overcast sky throughout the day and into the night. It was several hours after a winter’s early sunset, and Johnny trudged through the snow of the unplowed driveway and climbed gracelessly into the front seat of his truck.
Shortly afterwards he was on the road, the heating system gradually pushing out the cold that had gathered in the cabin. He took a slow lefthand turn onto the north-south highway that served as the town’s main street, and fumbled with the radio as he picked up speed. The village’s church, diner, and distressed houses quickly faded behind him.
The moon was not out that night, and Johnny navigated the road only by his truck’s powerful headlights. He could see far in front of him, and he navigated the winding road with years of muscle memory, making his way home, about 20 minutes north. He had made this drive in far riskier circumstances: drunker, with more ice on the road, and with passengers distracting him. He was not concerned about the three beers coursing through his bloodstream. The only things Johnny needed to process were the wide turns of the highway and any other cars he had to share the road with, which he had yet to encounter. The only obstacles between Johnny and his driveway were ineffective trees cut far back from the road and the snowflakes which whizzed past his windshield, visible only by the light of his high-beams.
Sluggishly fidgeting with the radio dial, Johnny scanned the airways for anything good. Too soft. Too screechy. Too much of that modern pop. It was all shit. He tried the country station, but it mildly disappointed him with some rising star singing about romance. Johnny recognized the tune although he didn’t know the lyrics, as simple as they were. He tried to follow along for a chorus before deciding that it wasn’t helping his driving. He let out a hefty sigh as he searched for the off button for the radio.
A flash of white light filled Johnny’s vision as his headlights reflected off a light-coloured form. Before Johnny could register it, the tawny mass was skidding across the truck’s hood with a thud. Time seemed to slow then, as years of muscle memory overruled the slow-moving conscious mind. Johnny slammed on the brakes, barely decelerating the massive vehicle as asphalt friction was countered by wet snow. There was no stopping the thing on the hood in its trajectory towards the driver’s seat. In his half-dazed state it didn’t even occur to Johnny that he ought to pray.
It was only by the purest of luck that the thing moved at such an angle that it flew off the left side of the hood before the majority of its mass could hit the windshield. It left a shattered dent in the glass and took off the side mirror, but Johnny, although he was not yet aware of it, was alive and unharmed.
The truck slid to a staggering halt, skidding across the yellow line, taking up the very centre of the snowy road. The chaos was over nearly as fast as it began, and snowflakes continued their lazy descent, unbothered.
In the cab of the truck, Johnny huffed air in and out of his now-shaky lungs. Despite his spiking heart rate he gradually took note of what had just happened. He wasn’t injured, but he quickly became aware of how stuffy the heated cab had become. It took another second for him to realise that the music was still playing. The singer was eulogizing his truck. Johnny found the off button.
Popping the door open, Johnny stumbled out of the driver’s seat. Moving slowly around to the front of the truck, the high beams illuminated a large dent in the fender.
“Fahk,” Johnny muttered out loud. “Fackin’ hell!” he muttered louder after noticing the trail of scrape marks that crossed the hood and ended in the partially shattered glass and missing side mirror. “Fahk!” he exclaimed again for good measure.
A second later his eyes followed the trail of destruction to the source. Sprawled at the edge of the ditch lay a crumbled mass of skin and bone. Its legs convulsed as if trying to learn to walk, and its mouth gargled out a vain plea for mercy. The creature’s twitching was accompanied by the scraping of bone on asphalt, although the beast’s skin had not broken.
“Christ,” Johnny yelled with sudden volume, “shoulda watched where you’re goin’, ya stupid facker! Busted mah fahking truck ya dumbarse! Ya stupid thing, ya… oh, fahk you!” His rant devolved into a string of disconnected curses and swears directed at the swiftly expiring creature.
Once he had exhausted his lungs and lexicon Johnny stood there, panting. He wasn’t sure why he had yelled at the thing. It had finally stopped moving, its long legs settling in a curled up position. Its head was slightly propped up by its sizable antlers, allowing Johnny from his vantage point several strides away to see its dark, glazed over eyes and slightly lolled out tongue.
It wasn’t the first time he had hit a deer, but that was one of the larger deer he had ever seen, a pretty mature buck by the looks of it. Its antlers had a full ten points and were almost ready to shed. Its rack would have been perfect for display if the seven tonne truck hadn’t broken the outward two points on the left side. No blood could be seen on the light brown pelt although internally the creature had doubtlessly bled out.
Johnny stood there for probably a minute in all, panting and staring at the carcass and thinking at a mile a minute. With its curled legs and bent back head the deer almost looked like a Christmas decoration, the sort of thing that people put on their lawns or roofs this time of year. At least the thing died quickly, so that he wouldn’t have to call the OPP to shoot it. He knew most of the local cops, but they usually had to be tougher when alcohol was involved. Murph had once jokingly told him that animals never have the common courtesy of crossing the road at ‘deer crossing’ signs. Johnny glanced around. Not a sign in sight. Typical selfish deer then. He hadn’t meant to hit it, so he really didn’t need to feel bad about it. Deer got hit all the time, no matter the weather. Ontario was overpopulated by them as well; he had really just done the province a favour. Still, he kept staring at the still form. Snowflakes melted as they landed on the still-warm flank. It was so fresh that it looked like it could decide to get up and carry on with its evening. A small part of Johnny hoped that it did.
The thought that broke his stupor was the realization that he was standing in the very centre of the road, and that a vehicle coming up behind him wouldn’t have enough time to brake to avoid another fatal collision.
He hesitated for a few seconds more, reconsidering the body. He had eaten venison plenty of times before, and had friends who knew how to butcher one properly. It wasn’t unheard of in the valley to eat roadkill if it was very fresh. If done properly it could be delicious. Deciding that it would be too much work at the present moment, Johnny wheeled around towards the truck. His bed was more inviting than tenderized deer. Cracked window and missing mirror be damned, his primary goal was his driveway. Johnny climbed back into the truck, slamming the door shut. Without so much as checking his two remaining mirrors, he put the stick into drive and piloted his ride through the snow. His eyes focused on the road with new intensity as a new mood of irritation fell over him. His night had been thoroughly ruined.
As the noise of the engine faded into the dark horizon, the snow lay a white sheet over the motionless remains. The shuffling of bushes and crunching of snow announced a cautious mourner. Head lowered, nostrils producing plumes of steam, this second deer gently nudged its companion. The familiar, friendly warmth was fading fast. The deer scanned the road. All was silent, just as it had been a few minutes before. The bereaved creature curled up on the ground against the body. The heat only lasted a few minutes before a feeling colder than the night set into the deer’s bones.